


How do I love Thee...?

by R00bs_Teacup



Series: rewatch bits [3]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Episode Tag, Episode: s01e05 The Homecoming, Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-23
Updated: 2018-03-23
Packaged: 2019-04-07 00:16:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14068731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R00bs_Teacup/pseuds/R00bs_Teacup
Summary: Prompted by rhesascoffee: Aramis is worried that Porthos wont forgive him for killing Charon, but knows he would do it again if it meant saving Porthos. A fic where they deal with this maybe?and a prompt about d'Artagnan doing little things for Porthos after The Homecomingand something about Athos being glad to get Porthos back.





	How do I love Thee...?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rhesascoffee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhesascoffee/gifts).



> WARNINGS: canon deaths, grief, Aramis is guilty about killing Marsac

It’s instinct more than anything, and then Aramis is watching Porthos hold his friend and lower them to the ground and he can’t hear what’s being said but he knows all the same because they seem to keep doing this, it seems to keep happening over and over. Just a month ago Aramis was holding Marsac like this, listening to Marsac’s last words, listening to Marsac. This man isn’t Marsac. Porthos isn’t Aramis. Aramis killed Marsac, Aramis killed this man, Porthos gets to be guiltless. He didn’t come for Aramis, didn’t rescue him, didn’t kill his friend, it was Aramis who had to do that. It wasn’t until right this second that he was grateful for that, he’d been feeling a twist of bitterness about it but now he’s standing here with a bloody sword and watching Porthos’s shocked face as the man dies, and he’s glad that it was him who ended Marsac’s life and no one else. Because he’d never have been able to forgive anyone for taking that most precious life and he doesn’t know what he’d do without these men who are so incredibly important to him. And whoever it is Aramis just killed he means at least that much to Porthos, Aramis can see it. 

“There was a woman who told me where to find you,” Athos says. 

Porthos gets to his feet and starts to wander off, then comes back and tells them urgently to leave, to wait for him outside, away. Aramis hasn’t noticed but people are closing in on them and there’s a very definite threat in the way they move. Porthos looks at them in a curious manner, head tilted a little to the side, eyes glazed, then he looks at the dead man and his face hardens. He turns away from them, crouches and takes something from around the man’s neck, takes the man’s knife, and gets to his feet. Aramis opens his mouth but Athos is dragging him away, out of there. Aramis watches as Porthos snarls around at the men and women then starts giving out orders, tying a bit of filthy cloth around his curls. Aramis has time to see Porthos vanish back into the warren around them before they’re gone. 

“Is he staying?” d’Artagnan asks. “Is he in charge?”

“I don’t know,” Athos says, sounding strained. “I don’t know enough about how things work here.”

“He said to wait,” Aramis says, turning away from Porthos and tugging sharply out of Athos’s grip, striding under his own steam. “We wait.”

They wait. They hear from Treville that Porthos’s name is clear. They wait. They sit astride their horses and d’Artagnan’s lost whatever uncertainty he had over Porthos now, now he’s as sure as any of them. Aramis can tell because d’Artagnan’s horse is calm and quiet, happy to stand still. His own is restless and keeps shifting, like she wants to be off. He wants to go, to gallop away, to leave. He would never have been able to forgive Porthos if it had been Porthos who took Marsac from him, never. Not if a hundred years passed, he just couldn’t. Marsac was broken and bitter and all twisted up but he was Aramis’s brother, his lover, his beautiful wonderful friend. He deserved more, better. He did not deserve to die and no one, no one, had any right to make that choice. Except Aramis, when Marsac begged him. It sits well with Aramis, now, that choice. His choice. 

“Took you long enough,” Porthos says, after the whole day has passed and evening is beginning to set in. He looks weary and bruised and like he’s passed a couple of days in a hell, but he is smiling. 

Aramis makes a joke about funerals and they all tell false-truths about their faith in one another (they all wondered, none of them were as sure as they say. They never are, when they say such things it’s a kind of promise. Of course they doubt, fear eats away at you until you doubt everything and everyone and no bond of friendship, no love, however deep, can change that). Porthos walks between Athos and d’Artagnan’s horses, a hand on Athos’s stirrup. Aramis rides a little apart, his blade, sheathed, still stained with the man’s blood. Porthos stumbles. Aramis reigns Miercoles in and dismounts but Porthos is already mounting tiredly behind Athos on Jeudi. Aramis swings back into the saddle and rides ahead to the garrison. He cleans his blade before the others come back and makes sure there’s hot food and a bath for Porthos in his rooms. 

“There y’ are,” Porthos slurs, coming into his rooms, giving Aramis an irritated look. Aramis points to the bath and Porthos lets out a huff. 

He sinks into the water, shamelessly and thoughtlessly naked, and just sits there, head bowed, staring at his hands. Aramis opens his mouth to ask if Porthos wants help but again Athos is there, already kneeling, sleeves rolled up. Aramis has seen Athos tender before, of course he has, especially those long years after Savoy and recently after Marsac. It’s still such a raw thing, though, how open Athos goes, intent on Porthos’s skin under his cloth, slow and solemn and taking such care. Aramis watches, butt against Porthos’s table, arms crossed. d’Artagnan’s wandering around the room picking up clothing and armour, absently tidying Porthos’s mess. He stills next to Aramis and watches Athos, too, smiling. 

“He did that for me,” d’Artagnan says, voice low and full of worship. “After I came back from Vadim I was in my rooms and I was bruised and hurt and Athos comes and brings warm water for a bath and then does that for me.”

Athos is pouring water over Porthos’s curls, now, a hand against his forehead so as to keep the water out of his eyes. Porthos tips his head back, eyes closed, mouth a little open. It must feel good. Porthos makes that face when things feel good. Aramis aches. He closes his own eyes then realises what he has done and opens them, resolved on hiding the ache, and is shocked to find he’s looking right into Porthos’s eyes, Porthos staring at him, eyes wide open now and on Aramis, intent. Aramis stares back, unable to look away, and his hands would be trembling he’s sure if they weren’t tucked in his arm pits. He wants to make a joke but he can’t, he can only stare, held in Porthos’s gaze. Then Porthos closes his eyes again, Athos murmurs something and Porthos answers. Athos helps him stand and dries him off a bit before nudging him over toward the bed. 

“You want next?” Athos asks, d’Artagnan, still quiet and grave. 

“Huh?” d’Artagnan says. 

“The bath, let’s not waste it,” Athos says. 

“Aramis is next,” d’Artagnan says, firmly. 

Aramis realises that d’Artagnan is watching him and looks determined and stern. He protests but d’Artagnan is adamant and just prods and makes jokes about modesty until Aramis takes off his clothes just to get the boy to shut up. d’Artagnan looks pleased with himself, hands on his hips, sleeves rolled up, he points to the bath until Aramis sighs and holds his hands up, folding himself into the tub. d’Artagnan makes a smug noise and sits cross legged beside Aramis, telling him stories about being small and making trouble with bath water, and then a laughing story about a freezing lake, and then about swimming with cousins, a joke about red hair, a story about his father. 

“d’Artagnan,” Aramis says, splashing water over his face and neck. 

“Yes?”

“Shut up. I’m done,” Aramis says, getting out. 

d’Artagnan makes a happy noise and bounces to his feet taking his clothes off in joyful excitement and splashing into the tub, still talking. Aramis wraps his scarf, wide when open, around himself and pokes at the fire until it gets hotter, then he stands before it and watches d’Artagnan bathing. Athos comes out of the inner room and comes to stand beside Aramis, also watching, curiosity and warmth in his expression. There’s a scar between d’Artagnan’s shoulder blades, his hair, damp, wet at the ends, curls, he’s started singing to himself under his breath; he’s so very young. This will all cascade off his shoulders, barely touching him. Aramis knows it’s unfair but he feels jealous all the same. d’Artagnan hasn’t had to kill any friends yet, nor watch them die. Aramis remembers d’Artagnan’s father and feels even worse, looking away. Accidentally into Athos’s face, who’s looking at him, eyebrow quirked. 

“You look ridiculous with that scarf,” Athos pronounces. 

“You look ridiculous,” Aramis counters. 

“Are you ever getting out? There’ll be no warm left,” Athos calls to d’Artagnan, not looking away from Aramis. 

“You bathe in ice water, you’ll manage with tepid,” d’Artagnan calls back, uncaring. Athos mutters something very rude. Aramis feels the warmth creeping into his bones. 

“Porthos was asking for you,” Athos says, casually, over his shoulder, on his way to claim the bath. 

Aramis looks at the curtain to Porthos’s room and hesitates. There’s a yelp and a splash and d’Artagnan laughs, running over to the fire, tugging the scarf from around Aramis’s hips and starting to pose with it. Aramis leaves him to it, pulling his under clothes on, his shirt, his stockings. 

“Don’t,” Athos says, his turn to kneel in the bath, washing briskly. He’s already on his way out. 

“Don’t what?” Aramis snaps, pulling on his trousers, his braces over his shoulders, his boots. 

“Fine,” Athos snaps back, anger that’s been simmering for days lashing out in his tone. “Run away, it’s what you’re good at.”

“Yes,” Aramis agrees, putting his belt around his hips ignoring the missing scarf, still with d’Artagnan (who’s got it around his shoulders, watching, bewildered, lip between his teeth. So young). “Whatever.”

“It’s selfish,” Athos hisses, completely naked but not caring a bit still advancing on Aramis. 

Aramis would laugh but he’s seen Athos, half drunk, naked as this, running after a thief and killing him with his own knife. That has been an interesting return from the tavern. Porthos had enjoyed it immensely and told it as a wild story for weeks, even composed a rude song about it. Aramis turns and tries to leave but d’Artagnan is stood in the door between Aramis and escape. He has at least put on his underclothes, Aramis’s scarf still around his shoulders, arms loose by his sides. He looks completely relaxed and his face is open, full of compassion. He reaches out and takes Aramis’s arm, holding around his bicep, pressing his forehead to Aramis’s. He straightens and presses a kiss to Aramis’s forehead where they were just pressed together. Aramis stares at him and d’Artagnan just smiles, warm and sad. Aramis turns to Athos to see if he just saw that and finds Athos gaping. Athos snaps his mouth shut and points Aramis firmly in the direction of Porthos. Aramis goes, pausing at Athos’s side so they can look at each other and marvel over the boy. 

“Yeah,” Athos agrees, hushed. “We’ll get wine.”

Aramis nods and goes through the curtain, pushing the cloth aside and striding so he can’t change his mind. Porthos is stood by the window, still unclothed. Aramis goes to stand shoulder to shoulder with him and Porthos takes his hand. 

“Charon’s not Marsac,” Porthos says. “The man you killed, he was called Charon.”

“Why are you looking after me, right now?” Aramis says, tired all of a sudden, Porthos’s hand a warm comfort in his. 

“I loved Charon,” Porthos says, musing, idle, not answering the question. 

“Why isn’t he Marsac?” Aramis asks, breath coming suddenly too sharp, hurting his ribs. “Why not? You loved him, he’s dead. We killed him just like we killed Marsac, like it was some sort of kindness like their lives were better cut short.”

“Charon made his own choices, you made Marsac’s,” Porthos says. 

That hurts more than Aramis thinks it should. Marsac chose to die as much as Charon did. It was Marsac who chose. Marsac, not Aramis. Marsac said to Aramis that Aramis knew, that he knew that Marsac had to, and Aramis did know. 

“Marsac chose,” Aramis says. 

“Mm,” Porthos says, seeming to have nothing more to say. It doesn’t make sense, there’s nothing here, nothing to say, nothing said. Just two dead men between them. 

“I don’t expect forgiveness,” Aramis says. “I didn’t know who he was to you, though, I just saw… I’m not excusing my actions.”

“Excuse away,” Porthos says, and he really does sound like he doesn’t care and maybe that’s worse. “I don’t care. Let him be dead, makes no difference. Can’t go back anyway, they all might as well be dead. We might’ve died years ago, all of us, what difference does it make? Everyone from the court is dead.”

Aramis keeps quiet. Porthos takes a shuddering breath and turns on him and they look into one another’s eyes again, caught, locked together. Aramis feels like he’s burning up, like everything is coming away. He sobs, catching at Porthos’s shoulder. He covers his mouth to stop it and that breaks their gaze. Porthos makes an impatient sound and looks away again, out of his window. It looks over rooves, there’s not much of a view. 

“I don’t expect forgiveness,” Aramis says again.

“I can’t absolve you for Marsac by saying I forgive you for Charon,” Porthos says. 

“I’m, that’s. It’s not,” Aramis tries. 

“Charon is nothing like Marsac,” Porthos says, more fiercely, beginning to get stubborn. They seem to be arguing, though Aramis can’t work out over what or which side he’s on. 

“Ok,” Aramis says. 

“I don’t want you to get it all tangled up,” Porthos says. “You killed my friend.”

“No, I,” Aramis says, then stops. “Yes.”

“You protected me,” Porthos says, softer. 

“Yes.”

“Watched my back.”

“Yes.”

“So I forgive you,” Porthos says. “But not for Marsac. For Charon. I absolve you.”

“For Charon.”

“For Charon. He got stuck, ‘mis. Caught up in a moment. He was so young, when I left, just a little boy really but already a grown up. We made choices for the immediate now, that was all the future we could afford. He said he stayed cus of Flea.”

“Is she the one who was hurt?”

“She saved my life, stopped Charon shooting me,” Porthos says. “She’s a good lady, better than anyone else I know. Never met anyone holds a candle even close to Flea.”

They stand in silence for a while, hand in hand, looking at the rooves as it gets properly dark. 

“I wouldn’t ever have forgiven you for hurting Marsac,” Aramis says. 

“I know,” Porthos says. “It’s why I left you to it. Watched over you all the same, you know that?”

“I know that. You turned up right after, had to have been watching.”

“Down a rifle,” Porthos says, grimly. “Would’ve shot him anyway, fuck your forgiveness, if he’d tried to hurt you.”

“Or the captain.”

“Eh, Treville’s been shot before and will be again, he’s a tough bugger. You’re fragile,” Porthos says. 

Aramis takes instant offence and starts in on his defence and finds Porthos smiling, grinning, laughing. Aramis tackles him to the bed and Porthos roars, taking them to the floor, sitting on Aramis. Athos pokes his head through the curtain. 

“Eat,” he says. “Drink. Put clothing on. Your arse looks magnificent.”

“Thank you,” Porthos and Aramis says in unison, which sets them laughing again. 

It is going to be ok after all. Porthos knows Aramis, and Aramis knows Porthos; Aramis wouldn’t have forgiven, but Porthos will. And, really, maybe in the end Aramis would have been able to forgive Porthos, if it came down to it. Knowing that Porthos was there to watch his back, that Porthos left him to do it for himself but didn’t leave him, it seems to be suddenly in a different light. He wouldn’t have had to forgive Porthos for killing his friend, taking a life that was still to be lead. He’d have had to forgive Porthos for caring so much about Aramis, for putting Aramis above everyone, for valuing Aramis’s life over any other. And that seems an easier thing to forgive. 

***

It takes about a week for Porthos to notice. He puts his lack of observation skills down to being sad, but also because of Athos. Athos hovers and makes Porthos food and does his horse’s tack and half Porthos’s duties, so a lot of things Porthos just puts down to Athos. Also it’s Aramis’s fault, he’s very distracting moping around trying to give Porthos space so he can ‘forgive him’. Porthos is perfectly happy with Aramis and doesn’t see anything to forgive so he’s faintly irritated by it which just makes Aramis more. Just… More. Porthos takes to sitting in the stables, up in the hayloft, and it’s up here that he notices. There’s often food brought for him, and his rooms are always clean when he goes back to them, there’s often food, his armour gets cleaned and polished, the leather oiled.

His horse is well groomed which is the give away; Athos never grooms Mercredi, Athos hates Mercredi and thinks Mercredi will bite him again. That was Athos’s own fault but there is a distinct lack of trust between Porthos’s horse and Porthos’s Athos. Which leaves Aramis, who is too gloomy to seek the horses he doesn’t think he deserves the comfort of them, and d’Artagnan. Porthos watches from his perch up high as d’Artagnan soothes Mercredi with a few words and grooms her, promising to take her for a ride if her if her absent master doesn’t do so soon. There’s a cloth in d’Artagnan’s belt that looks like it’s been used to clean a gun. Porthos’s guns, probably. Porthos thinks about the other things that have been done for him this week and sighs. Another guilty man with nothing to be guilty for. Porthos curls up in the hay and watches until d’Artagnan’s done and leaves, whistling. Next in is Aramis, wide eyed, gazing at the horses but not getting close. 

“Oi,” Porthos says. “Get up here. I wanna talk to you.”

Aramis comes, ever so ever so guilty. He lies down on his back next to Porthos and Porthos uses him as a pillow, stretching out, comfortable. It’s nice to be close to Aramis. Porthos breathes deep. 

“Sorry,” Aramis says. 

“If you apologize one more time-”

“For this, not for that,” Aramis says. Porthos snorts, though he understands the nonsense: sorry for being useless and guilty, not sorry for - “I’m sorry about your friend, though.”

“You were watching my back. Didn’t know it was him, or that he was important,” Porthos says. Aramis, thankfully, keeps to himself that he’d have done it anyway even if he had known. Porthos knows that but for now he’ll forgive the first. The second will come with time but he can’t hear it out loud yet. “d’Artagnan’s been in.”

“Looking for you? I can ask him to leave you alone,” Aramis says. 

“Grooming Mercredi. He’s done my weapons too, probably off to tidy my rooms now,” Porthos says. 

“Ah.”

“Mm.”

“Um?”

“Uh huh.”

“He thought you’d done it,” Aramis says. “Thought it was maybe an accident, maybe you were very drunk, didn’t blame you a bit but did think you had killed him.”

“Oh,” Porthos says. “So did I.”

“You did?”

“Mm. So did you, admit it. Weren’t sure, or you wouldn’t have been so urgent about it all. Athos didn’t, not that I saw, but when I came back he said he did think it, for a moment, when Charon said I wanted to stay at the court, with my real friends,” Porthos says. 

“Athos told you?” Aramis asks. 

“Yeah,” Porthos says. “d’Artagnan?”

“Oh. Right. I haven’t talked to him,” Aramis says. 

“Been wallowing,” Porthos says. Aramis is silent. “Right. Off you go.”

Aramis trots off willingly. He brings d’Artagnan back and points him up the ladder, d’Artagnan climbing up looking confused. He yelps when he spots Porthos lying among the hay but he doesn’t run off. Aramis waves jauntily and wanders off. Porthos watches him, then looks at d’Artagnan. The boy is kneeling, looking down at Porthos, face earnest. 

“Thanks for seeing to Mercredi,” Porthos says. “Athos thinks she bites and Aramis is, um.”

“Getting his gloom everywhere,” d’Artagnan agrees, flopping down and sprawling next to Porthos. “Were you looking for me?”

“Yeah, stop doing all ‘a this,” Porthos says. 

“I-”

“Can you just say it so we can clear it up and get on?” Porthos asks, weary of other people’s emotions all of a sudden. d’Artagnan gives him a bright smile. 

“Thought you did it,” d’Artagnan says, holding up a thumb. He raises a finger. “Worrying about that,” d’Artagnan raises a second finger, “wishing I hadn’t ever doubted,” another finger, “feel guilty that I did doubt,” and another, “I was not loyal,” he lets his hand drop to his chest and closes his eyes. “You have been so honest and loyal to me and nothing but good, and here I go doubting you.”

“And you came anyway, got me out, didn’t give a crap if I murdered the person, were still loyal,” Porthos says. “Which is daft.”

“Yeah,” d’Artagnan says. “I should have trusted that you didn’t do it.”

“Yeah,” Porthos agrees. “Stop doing my chores.”

“Oh!” d’Artagnan laughs, turning onto his side and holding Porthos’s arm. “I’m not helping out because of that! I just thought it might be nice for you not to have to worry about that stuff for a while.”

“Oh.”

“Anyway, it’s not like you didn’t doubt that I would come,” d’Artagnan says. “We’re still getting to know each other. Trust like that takes longer than we’ve had, it’ll come. Love is quick though.”

“Oh.”

“So, do you mind if I take Mercredi out for a run? She’s restless. She might bite Athos.”

“Again,” Porthos says. 

“Oh?” 

“Another time. Stories for another time. Go on then,” Porthos says. 

d’Artagnan kisses his cheek and forehead then scrambles down the ladder, calling to Mercredi and saddling her quickly. He looks up to call goodbye to Porthos as he issues out, him and the horse clattering and excited. Porthos sits up watches the life of the stables for a while. Jacques comes up to throw down hay but doesn’t comment on finding Porthos up there, just gives him an apple. Athos sidles in eventually and climbs up with a bottle of wine, wrapping around Porthos and pulling Porthos’s head to rest on his shoulder, rubbing warmth into his shoulders and arms, pulling him closer. 

“Are you drunk?” Porthos asks. 

“Little bit,” Athos says. “It’s ok though. Don’t worry.”

Porthos snorts. He always worries. He lets it go for now though, resting against Athos, shutting his eyes. 

_Right after they got back Athos bathed him, voice soft to ask questions, to ask if he could run the cloth over more intimate areas, to tell Porthos to turn his head or lift an arm. He washed Porthos’s hair and ran fingers through, gently over Porthos’s scalp and neck, softening the world around them with soothing quiet and gentle tendernesses. Porthos leant into that, let himself sink into it, let Athos look after him and make choices. Athos had, when he was finished, come through with Porthos to the bedchamber, sitting beside him on the bed, pulling the blanket off to wrap over Porthos’s shoulders. He leant his head on Porthos’s shoulder and held Porthos’s hand and sat in silence._

_“His name was Charon,” Porthos whispered. “He was my friend.”_

_“I thought you were gone,” Athos whispered back, voice breaking._

_“I didn’t believe anything he said,” Porthos whispered, tears on his cheeks. “I didn’t believe a word of it. I should have been able to trust him. He was going to shoot me, he would have shot me.”_

_“I had to get you back,” Athos whispered, turning his head to press tear-damp kisses to Porthos’s blanket-covered shoulder, his neck, his jaw. “I had to get you back.”_

_“He found me by that boy and knocked me senseless, set me up, didn’t think he’d find me there. I go every year, I hoped… I hope every time I’ll see them,” Porthos whispered._

_“I’m so glad you’re back,” Athos whispered. “You’re here.”_

_“I saw her once, when I was coming out of the Wren. Far away, at the end of another street, vanishing already,” Porthos whispered. “Gone before I could get my drunken self together enough to grasp her, to find her.”_

_“You’re alive, you’re back,” Athos whispered, crying harder._

_“I knew they were alive. Now he’s dead,” Porthos whispered, pulling the blanket close and tight around himself, Athos’s arms tightening with it, Athos pressing closer, offering comfort even as he cried._

_“I love you, Porthos,” Athos whispered. “I am so sorry this hurt you. I am so sorry you got taken away, only for it to be them, only to lose them again. Charon didn’t want to kill you, he loved you.”_

_“That’s exactly what I said to Flea,” Porthos whispered, looking at Athos. Athos looked back, eyes wet and wide and open with relief. “I was lying. So are you.”_

_“He didn’t want to kill you. He was a man with no choices,” Athos whispered, taking a long shuddering breath, letting Porthos go only so he could hold Porthos’s face and cradle him closer, kiss his forehead and eyes and cheeks. “I doubted you, you know. I didn’t know if you wanted to come home. I thought maybe you had done it and run to the Court and loved them more.”_

_“I didn’t kill anyone,” Porthos whispered._

_“I know,” Athos whispered. “I guess I didn’t really doubt that. Just that you wanted to come back, to come home. I didn’t know if you wanted to stay, and if you wanted to stay, then…”_

_“Then,” Porthos whispered. “Yeah. I wanted out, wanted to be home. Wanted you.”_

_“I came to get you, right into the court, would have found you as well if Charon hadn’t got to me,” Athos whispered. “I came for you, I will come for you every time, no matter where you are.”_

_“You’ll come for me,” Porthos whispered. “He died.”_

_“I know,” Athos whispered, embracing Porthos again, pulling them down onto the bed so he could embrace Porthos closer. “I know, I know.”_

_They wept together, then, holding tight, clinging to each other, weathering it._


End file.
